Chapter 1

Eremition

No Name Key October 2021

The small house rested peacefully on tall pilings made from island pine and built on the highest part of the island far from the main highway and deep into a secluded area with tall satin leaf and gumbo limbo trees and heavy undergrowth of beauty berry, bully, and marshland. Within the confines of his forest was a lake and to the west of his land, the Gulf, to the east, the ocean. With solid hard pine harvested by hand from nearby woodlands, the home had lasted through several hurricanes and was shaded by Gumbo Limbo, mahogany, and oak that protected them from high winds. His father had built the house when it was only him and his wife. Soon after, the boy was born.

As a child, Thomas Hudson worked with his father operating a fishing guide service for anglers coming to the Keys searching for adventures in the backcountry. In the west of his land, his father had taught him the art of the silent cast of a fly rod toward the fish that tailed in the clear water flats of the bay nearby. One slight sound and the prey would disappear. His father said his boy was the best angler he had ever seen in these waters. His father said he was quiet, like a rabbit. And then it was only Rabbit, and his mother worked at the pub nearby as bartender and server. That was long ago, and both had left him in the quiet of the woods, alone.

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Rabbit walked out of his door through his woods and across the coral rock and into the Gulf. The water supplied his nourishment of fish, lobster and crab. When the wind was low and the skies clear he would paddle his canoe to the mangrove islands. When the tide was out, he’d walk out into the bay, cast his net and gather baitfish. Other days he would walk the shoreline of the island, write his words, or gather shells on the sandy beach to create his art scavenging the shoreline of the island for shells, coral, and pieces of wood for his creations. He worked in the silence of the hidden shelter and lost himself in the quiet of the water. He often sat at the lake or the bay, sometimes fishing, sometimes asleep, sometimes walking, but always alone. It’s what he liked most about the lake in the woods; his sanctuary in a world where he believed he didn’t belong.

When the water was clear, he could see the shadow of any fish as they approached close to the beach. It was his refuge and a good place to be in the day. At night, the fish came in close to the beach hunting on the edge of the shoreline and in the quiet he could hear the splashing of their hunting. But in the day, the larger fish stayed out and away from the soft sand.

Making his own way Rabbit lived as an artist and occasional writer while in the house in the woods by the lake and worked hard to create and sell his art on the island. The locals knew of him, and spoke, but he had no friends, preferring to be alone.

He preferred the winter when the weather would cool, and the insects subsided. It was welcome, even for the short period, in that after one has lived in Paradise long enough, the weather doesn’t change much. There is hurricane season, tourist season and then the rest of the year. Sometimes there was cooler weather and sometimes the summers were too hot and without breath when the Tradewind sometimes stopped in June. Hurricanes arrived near May and often threatened through November. Small tropical storms were common and came often as heavy thunderstorms did. But during hurricane season when there was no threat, he had lovely weather.

Rabbit studied storms for many years and could tell from the sky when there was a tropical disturbance long before it showed its presence. His father had taught him to plot storms and take the precautions that he should take against them. He had lived through hurricanes with the people of the island and the unlikely bond perpetrated by the storm made between all the people who had been through it together. He knew the terror of hurricanes and sometimes nothing lives through them. He also knew he would stay through the worst storm if there ever was one that bad and be there and go with the house if it went. His house felt as much as part of him as he felt as part of the land. Built into the island as though it belonged, it was his refuge to ride out the storms as they raged.

Handcrafted from hard pine, the house was painted white and stayed cool in the summer under the shade of the trees with perfect ventilation from his windows so he could sleep during the hottest of nights. But the house remained a mystery to everyone, and you couldn’t see it hidden within the tall trees. The house was warm and comfortable on the cold days because it had a small fireplace and he would burn the wood collected while on the beach.

He called it a treehouse, elevated high above the earth, surrounded by large limbs of tall Gumbo Limbo trees, his refuge while hiding from an unsettled society where he didn’t fit. His sanctuary, built by his father with wood, railing, and nails, carried into the forest. But while it sat high above the ground and hidden from the below, he found solace during the nights and on days when he could find peace. Rabbit was the last free spirit carving an existence in life creating handmade jewelry and art. Locals donated his only transportation, an old bicycle, so he could get to the markets nearby to sell his wares.

As time passed, his Paradise became less, and others found what he had always had. Sometimes it was only a tourist and a wrong turn. But it was always during the day, and they would see there was nothing and leave. Other times, and more regularly, others discovered the quiet solitude and wanted to claim it as their own, but these people of late were different.

It was always dark when they arrived. Rabbit always knew. The rumble was like the sound of thunder on the western horizon. It shook the ground and echoed across the thick stand of trees and on the water as they crossed the bridge to the island from the mainland.

Late in the evening Rabbit sat quietly in his tiny room, creating his art by flickering candlelight. It was a small shell and wood fashioned into the shape of the piece he had found that reminded him of a mermaid. Much of his work looked like tiny fish, or crabs. Sometimes he’d find iridescent shells, conch, or coquina and craft them into bracelets or rings.

He stopped to lend his ear to the distance. They were coming. He had completed the bracelet and quickly slid it into a small bag. He blew out the candle and waited.

It was always in the darkness of the woods. The noiseless lake saddled next to a forest of pines, gumbo limbo, kapoks and lignum vitae. Hidden from view and known by few. They arrived here to party in the seclusion surrounded by these trees, away from peering eyes. Their parties were loud, with drinking, bonfires, and laughter. Often gunfire. He always knew when they were coming. Their machines thundering across Bogie Channel. Through the trees and on a rudimentary coral rock road that would lead them to the shoreline of the lake. These were not his people. They didn’t belong here; they invaded, interrupting his quiet. But he didn’t fight, or react. He stayed quiet like he always did. Like a rabbit.

He laid back on the cushions he had fashioned into a makeshift bed. He decided they would leave soon enough. There was no need to do anything. But tonight, it felt different. Something had changed.

Like the change in the weather when he felt a storm coming, he felt the tension of the crowd. It was louder and more boisterous than usual. Rabbit listened through the tiny windows in his hut. The revelry continued with abandon. One look, he thought. What could it hurt?

He stashed his work in a small box. He was curious and climbed down his ladder to the ground below and quietly moved closer to the lake, sneaking, half bent over, making sure he would remain hidden.

The night was cool, the moon full, leaving a shimmering string of light that danced across the lake. It was the Hunter’s Moon, and this gave him unplanned illumination on the ground. He crossed the path to the water like a forest animal wandering through the woods with all the light he needed.

At the lake, he peered cautiously over the large coral rocks that separated him from the water. The light of the fire created shadowed reflections against the tall tree line. Rabbit saw them cruising their motorcycles along the shoreline, to the end and back. He felt the vibration through the rocks. There was an odd sound along with the thunder. He heard metallic clanging. Maybe chains, he thought. Dust floating upwards from the coral rock roads from one motorcycle. He watched a blonde, bearded man on the motorcycle; he wore a blue bandana. The bike had ape hanger bars and a red gas tank with lots of chrome. It thundered past the fire. It sounded louder than the others and appeared to be dragging something. Rabbit could smell the pungent odor of weed drifting across the lake. He felt the pounding of the rock music, heard the laughter of men. And then the screams.